


Fresh Produce

by SansyFresh



Series: Angst and Stuff [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, M/M, My OC Papyrus, Panic Attacks, Paranoia, Pearanoia lol, Slight Hurt/Comfort, mostly angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 10:42:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18092780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SansyFresh/pseuds/SansyFresh
Summary: Portugal is certainsomeoneshady is leaving food at his door. He has no fucking clue who it could be, but like hell he's not going to try and find out.





	Fresh Produce

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pentollsin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pentollsin/gifts).



> hA btchi I made it angsty!!! All the angst for this boyo, no fluff allowed!! 
> 
> i hope you enjoy tho Pentol ;)

It’d taken a long ass time, as it turned out, for Portugal to even be in the same room as a Sans without his soul stopping in his chest. He’d been woken up by a concerned Paps, scorch marks on his throat enough times to know that he’d done some kinda stupid shit that the others would be more judgy about. Nearly killing himself (or the Sans) that many times left an impression. 

So for the most part, he only hung around the Papyruses (after they got past the whole “please just kill me” part). It wasn’t like he was around them that often, since they didn’t trust him and the feeling was way past mutual, but when he did go to one of their houses or out to one of the bars that he wasn’t banned from, it was just him and those of his kind. No Sanses to get his hands all twitchy, no round ass skulls to get him so deep in a panic attack he couldn’t see past his own sockets. 

For a while that was good enough. He got a job in some IT shithole, found a cheap apartment that no one looked twice at, and stopped getting into fights every other night. He was pretty sure he was still the others’ charity case, but they’d eventually left him alone. 

He stopped going when they asked, and eventually, they stopped asking. No more random phone calls, texts, or facetimes, whatever those were. He was finally alone, on his own, with no one pitying him or throwing him into the darkness bare assed and blindfolded. It was fucking great.

Until someone started leaving food parcels on his porch, the frozen foods still cold. At first he’d assumed it had to be Papyrus, or maybe Cash, since the two of them were the only ones that’d seemed to really care that he’d gone off on his own. But after a definitely not quick phone call, he discovered that none of them even remembered which side of the city his apartment was on, as they’d only visited once or twice. 

After that he was a bit more watchful, since the food occasionally showed up while he was home, either in the shower or in bed (definitely not napping!). But still, even when he was right in the next room and able to hear the sound of the plastic bags thumping on his front step, no one was there when he opened the door. 

It was making him paranoid, knowing someone was getting there and leaving quickly enough that they had to be a teleporter, of which he only knew two. It could be one of the Sanses, and he would have no idea that they were there. It was almost like living with his brother again, never knowing when he was leaving or when he was coming home. Neither option was a good time. 

So, one day, he took a few days off work and sat in front of his door, a pillow and a bottle of water at his side. He would fucking catch whoever it was,  _ Sans or not _ , and he’d give them a piece of his stars damned mind. The first was a day and night of refilling his water bottle, getting board and obsessively cleaning the living room until it glistened, and sleeping on his pillow, the hard floor nearly comfortable against his bones. 

The next day went much the same, the bags under his eyes growing the closer he came to a true panic attack. It fell that night, leaving his huddled against the door, his pillow pressed to his face as he cried, overwhelmed with emotion and fear. That night felt darker than the Void, more oppressive than the forests of Snowdin. His fear lasted until he passed out, too tired to stay vigilant in his paranoia.

The final day, however, was when he finally found his culprit. He was laying on the floor, green eyelight pale as he stared at the door, only for the sound of someone tampering with his lock to sound above his head. He watched, exhausted as the lock clicked, the door swinging open to reveal a Sans, the one with purple magic and a tired way to his eyes. Portugal realized he didn’t even know this one’s name, though he couldn’t say he cared. 

The Sans stared down at him, no pity in his eyes, nor disdain. Just a simple, emotionless stare. Then, he spoke, his voice filled with some emotion Portugal couldn’t place. “I didn’t realize something so simple as food would leave you a useless heap.”

Portugal huffed a laugh, his bones lax and eyelight hazy. Too tired to attack, too exhausted to care. Sans could kill him, and for all he cared, he’d let him. He was staring into space, only minutely startled as two short, but strong arms lifted him up and off the floor, almost gently placing him on his lumpy ass couch.

“Have you even been eating any of it? You’re way too fucking scrawny, even for a skeleton. All skin and bones, you could say.”

Portugal squinted at the shadows in the corners of the room, trying to decide if that was a pun and if he should voice his displeasure, but before he could the Sans was out of the room, the sound of crinkling bags and slamming doors coming from his kitchen. An indeterminate state of time passed, his sight focusing and unfocusing as he glared off into the distance. His session of intense hatred of the universe in general was broken by a steaming bowl of some kind of savory something being put down on the table in his line of vision. 

“I’m not leaving until you eat, so bugde up.” Two hands were gently, but firmly pushing him into a mostly upright position, his pillow retrieved from the floor and shoved behind his back. Glancing down, Portugal found the Sans blowing on a spoonful of what was apparently some kind of soup, before raising it to his teeth. 

“I c'n feed mys-” Portugal sputtered as the spoon was shoved in his mouth, his tongue forming with a snap as the creamy broth ran over it and down his throat. It was rich, soft and cheesy with a hint of broccoli. Not his favorite but definitely not the worst thing he’d ever eaten. Another spoonful was in his face once he’d gotten past the first one, and, having learned his lesson, he opened his mouth to receive it.

“Just like my brother, so willful when you get up the nerve.” The Sans grumbled, though the tone was fond. Portugal took another bite, wondering at the implications of what was happening, at the fact that he hadn’t been forced into another attack. At the fact that this Sans was essentially sitting close enough to touch him and, somehow, his soul found that okay.

There was another spoonful of soup sitting in front of his mouth, the Sans waiting semi-patiently for him to open up, and after a long moment of thought.

He did.


End file.
